


Ashore

by pratz



Series: Nowhere [3]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2640659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pratz/pseuds/pratz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You say her name, just once. It tastes like ice but feels like fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashore

**Ashore**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: Smokebomb Entertainment. Ouaknine, Simpson, and Hall.

-.-.-

xi.

There is always something surreal to find a 6ft woman of night and sin standing in the middle of your room when the most vivid memories you have of her is her closing the coffin that inters you for the next seven decades. Your hold on the doorknob tightens, or probably you just need something to keep you upright. Your mouth opens, but no word comes out.

Before you even have the chance to try again, Maman quits inspecting your room and turns to look at you. _I was expecting you to be a little more organized with your living arrangement,_ she says. A thin smile graces her face, making a contrast against the sharp lines of her cheekbones. _Come closer and close the door, daughter._

Your ears listen to her voice, and your feet obey by her bid. It’s not what you want, but it’s done. Of course. Of course _you_ will.

Yet that somehow snaps you out of your stupor. Maman should not be here. She can’t. She is the last person to ever be here. _Wh—_ you are half choked already, simply by being in close proximity to her, _what are you doing here?_

 _Oh child,_ Maman coos mockingly, _can’t a mother see the daughter she misses so much?_ She raises a hand to sweep your fringe aside. Her fingers are cold on your skin, and you clench your hands into fists. Your nails dig into your palm, and you are aware of the shudder that travels your body. She leans closer to you, her cheek almost touching yours. _Do you not miss your mother?_

_I—_

Maman draws back, giving you a sinister smile, and looks at the bed across yours, the desk with the turned off laptop, and the blue TARDIS mug. _It seems that your roommate is not too occupied by her investigation project lately._

Your spine turns rigid, and your blood freezes. Maman’s smile does not falter, and behind her glasses her eyes are nothing but a fell intent.

_Don’t touch her._

But she is your mother, and she knows you well. She knows that the tremble in your voice does not only come from rage but also from fear. She even knows what kind of fear it is, and you know it only delights her more.

_Pay me a visit soon, ma chére. We have so much to talk to._

She kisses your cheek gently, but you are still shaking even after she shuts the door behind her. The room closes in, the furniture too close, the light too dim, the floor swirling below you, a giant mouth ready to swallow you, keep you, hold you captive in the dark. A gasp escapes your mouth, but you still can’t breathe. Air. Help. Someone. Anyone. Help.

“Carm?”

...Who?

“Carmilla?”

Who?!

“Carmilla, you’re scaring me. Are you okay? Did something happen? Carmilla, talk to me.”

You jerk back your hand so fast it misses her chin by a mere inch. She looks at you as if you were a wounded animal. But you are, you realize, a wounded animal too damaged to heal. And this animal fears. _You_ fear. You fear even more when she reaches out a hand. You flinch and the hurt in her eyes is enough to make you feel the hallucinatory torture of swallowing rough blades and smashed glasses.

Maman is right. You should be with your family, Maman and your siblings. You are such a fool for thinking you can do otherwise. You _both_ are.

“I’m sorry,” you manage to say, strangled, not above a rough whisper, wounded. “I’m so sorry.”

You will miss her, you know. You will miss the doomed Louis Lane project, this room that somehow has endeared itself to you, her affinity for hot cocoa and cookies, her eyes when she laughs, her scrunched face when she is angry, her smile when she looks at you, really looks at you. You will miss everything about her, but Maman is right. To Maman you are a daughter awakened and kept to lure preys, to her a weapon saved as a wild card in an impossible war against a cabal of the undead, to the world nothing but a property to either command or utilize.

Maman is right, and that’s why you have to leave.

-.-.-

xii.

Someone kicks your calves.

_Wake up._

You know that voice.

 _Ugh, I can’t believe you._ Another kick. _Come on, silly. Wake up._

Ell, you begin, tiredly. Stop going in and out people’s head.

_Why are you here?_

Because.

_That’s it? This is how things end?_

That’s it. This is how I end things.

She harrumphs, and even without opening your eyes, you know how she soon schools her face into solemnness. _It doesn’t have to end like this, you know,_ she says, quieter. You feel her lift your head and cushion it on her lap, the way she loves doing in 1872 and in the short time she’s been your dearest person. She threads her fingers gently through your hair.

It’s alright. Let me sleep.

_You let her throw herself into the fire. You knew it from the beginning. Wouldn’t it be only fair that you save her or watch her save herself now?_

Not anymore. She can do all the saving herself now, and if she stayed in the fire, she’s a fool.

You hear her sigh and say, _You really are difficult. What would your father say?_

Difficult? Right. That brings a small smile to your face. You’ve heard worse, of course. Endearingly worse, though. You are, understandably, the roommate from hell, creepy freak, sociopathic sloth, pillow pirate, cookie thief, stupid, obstinate vampire, and eventually worst crush ever.

_Ah. See? With those wheels still running in your head, you won’t be able to sleep._

I’m trying, if only you let me.

 _Not good enough._ She snickers. _Wait. I’m not supposed to encourage you._

Ell?

_Mm?_

Do you know that Lois Lane is a fan of Def Leppard?

_Def what? No. No, I don’t. You always know strange things._

You sigh. I can’t help it, you think. She doesn’t give me any choice.

Ell is silent for a while. _I know._

You feel like tearing into her honesty. Shouting, even. Of course you do, don’t you, you want to shout. You were always watching from afar. Of course you know that in only a semester she does what you and others fail to do in scores of years. But you never talked to me after all this time, did you, you want to shout and break. Why wouldn’t you talk to me?

_Does she know?_

It doesn’t matter, you think. You are here now, where she will never be, where _Maman promises_ she will never be. It doesn’t really matter.

You never answer the question, though, and Ell sighs and it is eventually quiet again.

You go back to trying to sleep.

-.-.-

xiii.

Day 5. You hear Maman greets someone, her deferential tone for greeting changing immediately as she recognizes who is entering. _Miss Hollis,_ Maman says, and you stiffen. Your body aches, and yet you still strain yourself to pick up their flittering voices, Maman’s more audible than hers.

 _Come back another day, Miss Hollis,_ Maman says. _Yes, yes, I know you’ve been coming here diligently, and I understand how impatient you are. Yet it’s all the more reason you must be more patient. Do not haste, Miss Hollis. Indulge yourself in your waiting._

Oh you ridiculous, naive girl, you think, still unable to stop your body from aching all over. Why do you come here? Go away.

The voices gradually abate, and you go back to sleep, wondering if the throb in your chest were part of your bodily reaction to your ache or just that.

Day 11. Your body seizes. Stop it, you command it in frustration, willing it to listen to you. Stop. Just stop.

Day 13. You hear someone approaches the makeshift bed of rock. William, you know. You also know how he looks at you kind of strange. You hear him snicker. _I seriously don’t get you, kitty,_ he says, his tone mocking and confused altogether. _It’s just a couple of girls out of like—what—seven billions—every two decades? In what universe do you think this... subservience of yours would suffice?_

The universe you’re talking about is arbitrary, William, you want to teach the baby idiot. You’ll learn.

Getting no answer does not stop him from launching to his next monologue, of course. _I wish Maman would just let me finish off that girl, you know, so you’ll get so pissed at me and stop this madness._ His tone is oddly benign, almost familial. _It would have been so easy. That tiny neck of hers in a snap. Mmm._

You wish you could snap _his_ neck _._

_I don’t know what kind of bargain you made with Maman, but whatever. Your choice, your business. Enjoy your long deserved sleep, sister._

You curse him in every language you know because he is a lout, poltroon, blatherskite, and—and he is your brother. As twisted as it is, family doesn’t kill each other. You heckle, piss, and fuck with each other, but you are bound to not kill one another.

Even Maman goes by that golden rule.

Day 15. You hear: _No, Miss Hollis, I don’t believe you are going to die if you wait any longer. Well, to be completely honest I don’t care if you die, but I have made a promise to not target you. Yes, I will make sure my daughter does not suffer from her... taphephobia. That’s an intriguing word you use there, Miss Hollis._

Taphephobia, huh.

That’s just so her to use such a technical word.

Day 18. You convulse. Muscles pulled, joints sore, limbs turned to jelly. The ache stings and stings and stings.

Stop. Let go.

Day 22. Maman says, _I have to admit that your roommate is very persistent._

Stay away from her. Don’t touch her. You promised me.

Maman’s hands are frosty on your skin, almost as cold as the stone you are lying upon. _I am almost tempted to go back on my words._

Don’t touch her.

_Would you be mad if I did? We serve a demanding master, ma chére. If he wanted me to, I wouldn’t think twice._

Don’t touch her!

 _Oh humor me, ma chére._ Maman’s laugh is even colder. _Even I have my honor. Don’t worry._

Day 25. Ell is in your head again, and you hear her say, _It has begun to snow outside._

Really? That’s earlier. What date is it?

_You’d look so beautiful outside, all the dark against pure white._

Only you would think like that.

_She does, too._

Day 29. The muscles have started atrophying. The heartbeat has slowed down to an almost complete adagissimo. Langsam, in your native tongue. You repeat the word again and again as it falls on your numb tongue. Langsam.

Day 23. You say her name, just once. It tastes like ice but feels like fire.

I don’t want to forget.

Day 39. Maman sweeps her palm across your temple, cheek, and jaw. _À la prochaine, ma chére,_ she murmurs. _Prends soin de toi._ Her fingers glide on the skin of your neck, reverently, away.

Day forty-something. Or fifty-something. You lose count.

Komm, süßer Schlaf.

-.-.-

xiv.

“Carmilla! Oh my god, Carmilla. Carmilla!”

—who.

“Carmilla, oh my god, what were you thinking, you idiot, don’t you dare die on me, you asshole, please don’t die, please don’t die, please.”

Who.

A hand shakes you violently, but you can’t move. The same hand checks your chest and neck for a pulse then goes back to shaking you again. Another hand slaps your cheeks repeatedly. You feel: wetness on your face, then salt, like the ocean, then tang, like metal.

Like blood.

Just like that, and your eyes snap open. The other you, the monster, stirs and awakens, ravenous, hysterical, untempered, and now its food is offered freely. Time to feed, the monster howls at you.

No. No. Stop.

Time to feed time to feed time to feed!

You seize whatever the blood comes from—very close, near your lips, on your mouth—and moans when more blood spills onto your tongue. Like drowning, then evacuated. Like buried, then unearthed. Like abandoned, then discovered. Like lost, then found.

Moremoremoremoremore!

You feed and feed until you hear another moan that is not yours, weak but there, then a stuttered breath, a sharp gasp of pain, a faint whisper of your name in a familiar voice. Abruptly, you let go, mouth still full of blood, and try to focus. Your eyes have not adjusted yet to the sudden glare of light, and everything is blurry and speckled, but you recognize the outline of her figure any given time.

How—

It’s her hand that you hold to your mouth, you realize, arm sliced open all the way to the wrist, a bloodstained fountain pen lying next to your head. Soft fingers, pale skin, foolish, fragile, beautiful, human hand.

“Lau—ra,” you croak, your throat tight and suddenly parched despite the blood. “No. No, Laura, no. No.”

Her wrist falls from your mouth, and her hand slides away, too, as her body skids from the stone table you have lied upon for god knows how long. You twist and catch her before she hits the ground.

Her face is pallid, but her grin belies everything. She is so light in your arms, and you’d rather think it’s not because of your feeding. Her eyes find yours, and she forces out a wider grin. “So this is how it feels to be a real human juice box, huh.” When she takes a breath, it is shallow and you can hear the wheezing from her lungs. “Welcome back, you stupid vampire.”

You stagger to get to your feet, dizzy from moving too much in such a sudden change of event, nauseous from the sight of her like this in your arms. Hoisting her by an arm under her knees and another around her shoulders, you carry her and force yourself to think. You crash through doors and walls and a horde of bystanders, uncaring of how your mouth still stained bright red with blood, all 1945 Lobau plus a human load.

You bellow Perry’s name as you reach her room. She starts but quickly recovers, dashing to take her from you, trying her best not to flinch at the horrid gash on her arm and your bedraggled appearance. She calls for LaFontaine, who comes with an IV and blood transfusion set, and you can only collapse to your knees once they are hooked to her arm.

You hold her hand all the time.

Perry hands you a towel and makes a gesture of wiping your face, and so you do. She sits with you as you wait for LaFontaine to finish treating her. You drop the towel, and your stomach revolts as you remember that it is her blood you find there.

 _She’s been looking for you, you know,_ Perry says. _She’s been restless, coming to your mo—the Dean’s office everyday, asking about you, I believe. Did you two have a fight before you left? I mean, it’s not my business, but you have no idea what she had in mind when the Dean told her that you had left. And you just left like that._ She laughs nervously. _Who would guess the Dean has a secret basement that leads to the library, huh. Silas is sure made of secrets and trespasses._

Fool, you think. _What about the war?_ you ask.

 _There is no war,_ she answers. _Or not yet, I think._

You look away. A small snowstorm is raging outside, but Silas is still here. You all are still here. _My mother?_

 _We don’t know,_ Perry shakes her head, frustrated. _Probably getting ready for the war._

Oh. You bite your tongue. Of course.

 _But at least you’re back now, right?_ Perry lightens up.  _She’s gonna be alright,_  she says. _Just minor hypovolemia and some fatigue. She’ll recover. _By the way,_  _she pauses, __it’s good to have you back.__

I’m not back, you intend to say, but you don’t. Instead, you let go of her hand, lift it, and put it gently across her abdomen. You rise to your feet, still a little unsteady, giving Perry a small nod of gratitude. You take a look at her once again—sedated but recovering. She’s going to be alright, you tell yourself again. You have a thousand whys you’re not sure you want her to answer, but at least she’s going to be alright. Fool, you think again, and you turn to leave.

 _ _Leaving again?_ _ Perry’s voice stops you just before you reach the door. __She’ll punch you if she knows.__

 _Good,_ you retorts.

Perry remains quiet for a moment, then she says, _I really want her to punch you so hard—_

_I’ll let her._

__—so, so hard that you cry. I’m sure you haven’t cried since—what—you were murdered? Turned? Lost your ex? You can, you know. You’re allowed to cry._ _

You don’t turn around, but you know Perry is watching you, waiting for your reaction, for what you are going to say. Nothing, of course. You’re not going to give her the satisfaction. So, nothing. January 4, 2015. You say nothing as you head to Room 307, West Dorm, Silas University.

-.-.-

xv.

Following the end of the War of the League of Augsburg two years ago, Duke Leopold the Good is granted the restoration of the duchy to his house for his service in the war. The triumphant duke invites his marshals, diplomats, and aides to his residence in Nancy to celebrate the cause. August 17, 1698. Your father has arranged for you and him to travel the daylong trip to Nancy. Your father, noble patriot and loving man he is, cannot stop talking about his excitement. _A grand celebration of our glorious return to our homeland,_ he says. _May our homeland be blessed forever. May her children, especially you, my daughter, be blessed forever._

You restrain from rolling your eyes, because it is unheard of for a lady to do so. _Father, yes, it is what you have said for the last three hours._

He checks the lapels of his uniform in the mirror once again before turning to you. You will have to leave soon, a carriage is waiting outside your manor, but you do not really feel like going to the ball. _That is not what I expect from you, Mircalla. Are you not jubilant for this ball?_

 _I am! I am happy for our homeland, our people, us,_ you insist. _It’s just,_ you pause, hesitating, then decides to get it all out, _I cannot bring myself to look forward to the talk of suitors and matrimonies any time soon._ Men-at-arms and princes have soured themselves for you. You want anything but dull, constant bravado.

He does not reply immediately, but when he does, it is his chuckles that greet your ear first. _Mircalla,_ he says, _you are young, very young. And beautiful and intelligent and,_ he stops himself, seemingly remembering your late mother, _everything your mother would be so proud of. Worry not about the morrows. You shall have your future the way you want it to be._

Because he is your father, and he knows you, you and your dream of going to the Versailles for the first time, seeing Louis XIV and your emperor Leopold I and the Ottoman and your people make everlasting peace, meeting Prince Eugene of Savoy, your father’s best friend and commander, sail to the New World or the East Indies, and going places with your eyes open to the wonders of the world. He too knows of your dream of a suitor you choose for yourself because you want to, her hand in yours, headstrong but caring, brave but gentle, like your mother before you, like your father himself.

 _My future the way I want it to be,_ you repeat him.

 _And nothing less than that. And I shall be there to love you come what may._ He bends to kiss your hair, and you close your eyes to revel in his presence. He straightens himself, winking in good humor. _But rein in a bit the need for waltzing like a mad fool tonight, would you? Please spare this old father of yours a heart attack._

Blushing, you clear your throat. _I will see to it._

Chuckling, he embraces you from behind, and the two of you stand facing the mirror. _There shall be someone who reads you bad poetry and rhyme awkwardly, steals your afternoon cake just to make you laugh, and steps on your toes when dancing with you, but she too shall love your beautiful, human heart as much as you do hers. And when that day comes, my dearest, you shall let me know and I shall love her, too._

You look at your reflection in the mirror. _What if she won’t?_

 _Then I shall come to bring her into her senses the way only this father can do._ He clears his throat and lowers his voice, saying, _My lady, how can you not love my daughter? How can you deny the love of someone who looks at you the way we all look at the stars?_

You want to say something, anything, but you are too focused on the bloom of warmth your fragile, human heart has pumped throughout you. Your reflection in the mirror smiles at you.

Your father turns you around, smiling, offering his hand. _Now, my dearest,_ he says, _are you ready for the first day of the rest of your wonderful life?_

You take his hand and nod, and you believe, you believe, you believe.

-.-.-

**Author's Note:**

> xv. Leopold of Lorraine. Also, respectively, _Edelweiss_ and _At Your Most Beautiful._


End file.
